


Fabricated Rose

by AvelHart



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvelHart/pseuds/AvelHart
Summary: Akira wakes up in the gallery of the infamous Ichiryusai Madarame, where paintings come to life and pursue their fellow guests. He soon runs into Yusuke Kitagawa, who is also trapped in the living museum. Together, they must escape the fabricated world less they lose themselves to it. :: Ib AU.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	Fabricated Rose

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://tiffycatdraws.tumblr.com/post/186962454581/my-ib-au-inspired-piece-for) was the prompt.

It takes the scent of roses surging through his senses to realize something is _horribly_ wrong.

The hallways are dark, floors donning hard carpeting, and the paintings on the gray walls are not pieces one would find in a normal museum. Some are simple, depicting an innocent pale vase on a table while others seem to follow his every movement. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say they sidled along the walls, peeking around the corners he turned.

Apprehension threads his veins, gripping tightly to his limbs as he takes a brief respite against a naked wall. No paintings. He made sure, just as he makes sure now to press himself as tightly against its surface when he sees the shadows dancing along the corridor.

He makes out the silhouette of limbs sprawled across the floor, the outline of a head and long hair, and then the rest of her cut-off body.

No.

Not cut off.

That was all there _was_.

An upper body that stopped just below her bust, the portrait scraping behind her as she crawled from one place to another. On the wall, she had been an innocent, elegant painting of a beautiful young lady. Anywhere else, she was a monster made entirely of moving paint. Animalistic growls unfurl from her throat, frustrated when she cannot find him as she drags herself to... somewhere.

The smell of flowers ( _roses_ ) is overwhelming, and the flavor of copper bursts on his taste buds. His fingers reach for his pocket—

—and horror dawns on him when they fail to brush against the soft petals or the prickly stem. He misplaced it, he misplaced the damn _rose_.

Something inside him twists, tearing until it brings him to his knees with a wave of black nausea. His hand goes to his head, a futile attempt to root him in such a bizarre, unrealistic world. He’s gonna be sick, the blood accumulates in his mouth as lacerations bloom on his arms and torso, and he only makes it so far

(crawling just like that lady in the portrait! How peculiar!)

before he too collapses.

Everything is on fire, except it’s not, and he curls in on himself against phantom pain, clenching _everything_ to ward it off from attacking his senses. It was as if someone was cruelly plucking away the petals of a flower, agony thrumming inside him as each one met the ground.

It is not a place where Kurusu Akira expects to fall asleep in, but he is helpless against the abyss of sleep. It soothes him with its melody, tells him the pain will disappear if he just closes his eyes and sleeps.

 _If only for a few minutes_ , it lies.

He condemns himself to an eternal rest the minute he allows his eyes to slide shut, blotting out the hell that is a museum that has come to life.

\--

His skin prickled with freezing hydration the minute he took the plunge.

A giant, 3D sculpture with an angler fish staring up at him hungrily the minute the electricity in the museum cut. Surely it would have taken him right then and there, torn through his limbs as if they were mere tissue paper. Instead it doesn’t. It darts away, taking away the light dangling from its antennae the minute his foot dips into the dark blue water.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, what tells him to dive deeper, but it is better than being stuck inside an empty building with the headless art sculptures that observed his every movement.

So he dives into the new world.

Something that is ‘new’ is not necessarily ‘good’. And he learns this quickly when he tumbled through an equally blue wall and onto the floor. Though he will admit clothes drying the minute he stepped out of water (paint water?) was something that would be much appreciated back in the real world.

Akira doesn’t remember how he found the flower and the key, but he remembers the red letters that seemed to follow him down the halls

(T H I E F

G I VE I T BA CK)

until he reached the next section of the museum. He was no thief, or maybe he was. The rose itself had been too beautiful to be real, and he didn’t recall a bouquet of flowers sitting at the receptionist’s desk. Maybe it was part of an art sculpture that he had to put together. Maybe whatever it went to would come to life and try to kill him like everything else did.

When he comes to, it’s in a gray room with a bookshelf in the corner and in the center of the room. A blank canvas of bright interlocked colors looms over him on the wall. He blinks, shuffling beneath the coat that had been draped atop his body. Had something brought him here to give him a cruel burial?

Except this coat is not fake. It’s real, and he feels something bunched in the pockets when he sits to push it off.

This isn’t the hallway he passed out in either.

...But he knew that already.

More importantly, the pain is gone.

There are no tears in the long sleeves of his shirt, nor is the fabric darkened with the blood that he _knew_ had split from the deep cuts. His head whips to the right, gaze landing on a vase with a red rose blooming out of it. Without a second thought, he rises, plucking it from its little dip in the water. A thorn bites against the side of his index finger in protest, but he doesn’t care. It’s here, its petals are intact, and that’s all he cared about.

The door opens.

Akira does not let go of the rose. “Who’re you?” he demands, voice accusing.

The intruder is a tall young man around his age, dark blue hair parted to the left. His eyes are a dark gray, unreadable in the face of Akira’s question. He’s stunning enough to _be_ a painting in the museum, and he very well could be given how realistic the portraits looked…

“I’m the one who just saved your life,” he retorts.

...however, they did _not_ talk. Not like _this_ anyway.

Akira doesn’t move. Neither does the stranger. “You found my rose,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Nearly destroyed, yes.” he steps forward, swiping the coat from the ground to throw it back on his shoulders. “I would tell you how careless your actions were to leave it sitting in an empty vase, but I’m sure the last thing you want to hear is a lecture...” he straightens out his clothes, then pauses. “Are you alright?”

 _I didn’t leave it in the vase on purpose_ , he wants to say. “I’m fine,” _thanks to you_. “Thank you.”

“Good,” and he turns, hand on the doorknob. “Shall we be off then? It appears now would be the ideal time to keep going.”

He didn’t seem like one for small talk.

“Would you mind telling me your name?”

Hadn’t that been _his_ line? “It’s Kurusu Akira.”

“A pleasure,” he responds. “My name is Kitagawa Yusuke. I’ll be relying on you from here out.”

\--

His first impression of Yusuke is how knowledgeable he is of the artwork. They exit the gray corridor into a section of the museum that has chosen purple as their color motif. There are no ladies leaping from their paintings or white mannequin heads with blank stares or headless sculpture, but there are ‘pictures’ of crude scribbles. It’s as if someone had given their child a pack of crayons and sent them off with a, ‘Draw on these walls instead of the ones back home’.

They’re not too far away from the gray room when they’re stopped at a painting of a cherry blossom tree under a midnight sky, a round yellow moon in the upper left corner. The pink-decorated branch waves back at them, caught in a breeze that they cannot feel on the other side of the canvas. _Fleeting Thoughts on a Moonlit Night_.

“It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” Yusuke says. “This was created during the mid-1900s. You can tell the style is different from his more modern works.”

Given the realism of each painting, ‘impressive’ is the last word Akira would have used. But this painting at least doesn’t come to life or try to strangle them with its branches or something... For what it’s worth, it is quite breathtaking. “Are you familiar with the artist?”

He nods, not taking his eyes off the painting. “Quite. I studied much of Madarame Ichiryusai’s works for both school and for inspiration. Though I have yet to create something as extraordinary as this.”

“You draw?”

“Yes,” there’s a note of hesitance there, and Akira can’t figure out why. “I’m a student at Kosei high school for their fine arts division. I decided to visit the museum after winning a free ticket in a raffling, but I had not expected to be where I am now. I take it you draw as well?”

Akira lets out a short, one note laugh. “Not exactly. I came to this exhibit for a school assignment with a few friends of mine. We’re all pretty clueless about art; we didn’t even know who Madarame was.”

“You... didn’t know?”

The wind rustling the flowers slows, as if listening to their conversation. “Like I said, we didn’t really come here of our own volition. Just had something that needed to be done.”

A sound emits from far behind them. Its metal, ringing sharply in the silence of the museum. He wonders if it’s one of the sculptures was fiddling with the rope maze they had passed earlier, shoving at the heavy poles to reach them. Akira nudges Yusuke’s arm lightly, guiding them as far from the noise as possible. They could talk later, or at least somewhere less dangerous.

Their aimless wandering eventually leads them to a room with more bookshelves and a large drawing with a red background. Akira is unable to make out what it is (hands reaching for one another? or were they simply black shapes?), and the title etched into the placard is no less vague.

 _Separation_ , it read. But from what?

“I tried leaving this museum the way I came in. There was a painting I observed and then everything changed...” Yusuke narrows his eyes in frustration at _Separation_. “I can’t remember the name of it, but I have never seen it in Madarame’s portfolio. I wonder if it’s even a part of the exhibit.”

Akira nods, listening. The tomes crammed on the shelf depict mostly blank pages, an occasional blurb unrelated to paintings but rather a list of rules regarding the gallery:

‘No touching the art pieces, no food and drink, no taking pictures, no leaving ever, no filming...’

That’s when the lights burn out.

They don’t flicker like they had back in the real world

(if it could even be called the ‘real world’)

but instead plunges them into an unseeing blackness. He still feels the cover and pages of the book before it drops from his hands.

“Akira?”

“I’m here.” he calls back as he roots through his pocket, searching for his phone. Only that doesn’t turn on either, the battery having run dry or maybe it was some weird effect of the gallery. If sculptures could come to life and chase them through a labyrinth of absolute artistic hell, then it was very possible it killed his phone too.

Huh.

Blindly, he pulls the lighter free. It wasn’t his, having been given to him by his caretaker to ‘hold on to’. Only he may have forgotten to give it back the minute he realized he was running late for the morning train. Akira did not smoke, but Sakura Sojiro did, and Sakura Sojiro was probably a little more than irritated that he forgot to return the lighter.

But if they made it out alive, Akira would be sure to thank Sojiro for his lighter and how it saved them during a blackout in a haunted museum.

Sounded like a believable story.

“What are you—?”

 _Click_!

The lights surge back to life, like an alarm going off.

Except the writing is everywhere.

Crudely drawn letters in bright pink and dark green and yellow...

DON’T KILL ME

S T O P

Sirens etched in crayon, it appears, across the title plate, the painting itself, and on the floor in the space between them. He caps the lighter quietly, looking to Yusuke, as if wondering if _he_ could see it too. There’s an unsettling look on his face, discomfort and anxiousness contorting his face as he steps over the letters and closer to Akira.

“What is this...?” his eyes flit to the lighter.

The painting looms over them quietly. Maybe it ponders if they’re going to set its frame ablaze.

“Let’s go,” Akira decides before either one of them starts hyperventilating. “There’s nothing here.”

Yusuke does not protest, following closely behind as they abandon a room that cowered in fear of a tiny lighter.

\--

They find a brief respite in a room full of bookshelves. It’s the most he’s seen since the one in the Red Area, the place where he encountered the first Lady in Red. The last thing Akira wants to do is _read_ about the artworks that are trying to kill them. But he ends up sitting on the floor next to Yusuke, watching him aimlessly leaf through the pages.

Adrenaline slowly oozes from his veins, and he rests his forehead against his kneecaps. There’s the familiar draw of fatigue that is not unlike the one he felt back when the pain continued to assault his body. But he pushes through. Besides, the carpeting could hardly be used as a cushion...

“If you wish to rest, you can.”

Akira shakes his head. He looks to Yusuke, to the book open in his lap, expecting to find some picture of a headless statue or something monstrous.

The young woman in the painting is nothing like the Lady in Red. She wears a red shirt, but her hair is like spun onyx, arms cradling a baby as they sit against a gold background with a single sakura tree branch. Printed in block characters is _Sayuri_. A description detailing the history and art process are to the left of the page. Oddly enough, this one lacks a date; 19?? could hardly be considered reliable.

“This was the one that inspired me to start drawing,” Yusuke says. “Its composition, the emotions felt from her expression... Does it not stir something within you as well?”

If there was a way to ‘feel’ about a piece of art, Akira isn’t sure he feels it. He’s no artist; he can draw stick figures at best and maybe a tiny cat doodle at the corner of his notes pages. This doesn’t send bursts of colors behind his eyes nor does it make him feel as if his heart is on fire. It is much nicer compared to the other paintings of women scattered about the museum. He just hopes this one won’t leap from the pages and chase him down the halls.

So, he nods, slowly. “Yeah. It’s a nice painting.”

There’s a breath of silence. Yusuke does not look too impressed. “Is that all?”

For as short a time as he’s known Yusuke, Akira’s come to realize he’s quite demanding in his own way. But Akira did owe him for earlier, so the least he could do is play along. “I...,” he purses his lips. “...like her face. It looks almost real.”

“Of course,” he nods, and Akira listens closely for any note of sarcasm. There is none. “Most of his artworks are known for their realism...” his gaze lingers on the portfolio. Akira is ready to assume Yusuke has forgotten he was in the room when he addresses him again. “There is a rumor about the _Sayuri_ as well.”

A rumor...? Something suspicious that a renowned artist like Madarame had to keep buried on layers and layers of paint? His curiosity is piqued. “What was it?”

“There are many paintings here that were modeled after real people. For example, the Lady in Red is said to be a past suitor despite his claims. The _Sayuri_ is a special case. They say she was modeled after one of his students,” (his eyebrows furrow.) “and that it was painted by the student herself.”

Painted by the student... He swallows. “But it’s in his portfolio...”

“Yes, and I do not doubt his abilities. However,” he snaps the book shut, rising from the floor to shove it back on the shelf. “what if it was true? How many other paintings has he created that were under someone else’s name?”

Silence drips between them, filling into the cavities of their conversation. A twinge of guilt flickers inside his stomach. He wished he paid more attention to the Madarame Ichiryusai’s history instead of ignoring the lecture. Maybe his homeroom teacher made a mention of this rumor, or maybe she didn’t. Either way, he could not rewind the clock to go back and see.

He withdraws his phone from his pocket. It is the exact same time as when he entered the gallery. No sense of time, no sense of direction... It was as if they were lost out at sea except there were no stars to guide them.

(Personally, he would have preferred the GPS)

“Did you really come here for research?”

He doesn’t know why he asks that. He just does.

Yusuke hesitates again. He avoids making eye contact, a nervous habit, Akira notes. “Not for an assignment. I wanted to see the exhibit personally, but I am endlessly curious about the _Sayuri_ since it is the source in my pursuit of art. I wish the rumors weren’t true, but they very well could be. We do not know what happens behind the screens because we are not supposed to.”

The words sound like a warning although Akira knows they are not meant to be. He wants to look back at the Sayuri, compare it to the other pages in the book.

But they don’t have time.

Yusuke seems to think the same. “Let’s be off. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

He chances one last look at the bookshelf.

“Yeah.”

\--

The crash shakes a few petals off his rose.

He stumbles back, expecting the hard bite of the unforgiving, violet carpet. Yusuke’s grip is hard on his arms, his voice equally unshaking as he addresses the offender. “Another visitor?”

Akira does not recognize the young man’s uniform. There is no lapel pin or badge stapled into his shirt. He dips his head in apology, holding out the rose

( _minus one petal_ , Akira thinks bitterly. He can only hope there was a vase nearby.)

when he speaks. “My apologies. I wasn’t expecting to run into someone like you and your friend.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he takes the rose, holds it close by his side.

He speaks, “You two... wouldn’t happen to be from the gallery, would you?”

“I...” Akira chances a glance at Yusuke, who watches this ‘third visitor’ with guarded eyes. His eyebrows are knitted together, suspicion creasing his face. He can’t say he understands why Yusuke is looking at this person in such a way. “We both were, but we don’t remember how we got here.”

“But... you came from the exhibit?”

Yusuke’s suspicion must ooze into him. Something’s not right; where else would they have come from? He carefully weaves the words. “We did. Was it the same for you?”

“I see...” he brings a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, I remember wandering bout the gallery until I noticed everyone was gone. It all seemed to start when I found a painting. I have to wonder if the same happened to the two of you.”

Indeed it had. For Akira at least. The more he thought about it, the more he realizes Yusuke’s stumble into the living gallery had remained a mystery.

“You look familiar,” Yusuke finally speaks. “Have we met before?”

He blinks. “I apologize. I forgot to introduce myself,” (Akira glimpses something in his pocket: a cluster of petals white as snow attached to a green stalk.) “My name’s Akechi Goro,” he pauses. “Does that help at all?”

“No.”

“You mentioned a painting...” Akira interrupts. “Do you remember what it looked like?”

His heart jumps when Akechi nods. It’s a tiny speck of hope, but he would take it if it meant there was a sliver of a chance of leaving this world. “I didn’t recognize it as one of Madarame’s artworks, but it did depict one of his paintings. I’m sure you’re familiar; they’ve been chasing you around the exhibit.”

 _‘That could be a number of things’_ , Akira thinks.

“Shall we discuss this along the way? I have a theory I’d like to share with the both of you.”

\--

It reeks of crayon the further they travel through the gallery. Crude scrawls of green lines and yellow buds sprawl onto the frame, curling into the walls. Sometimes it is just that: ongoing vines and childish drawings. Other times, there was a drawing of a... _thing_. Akira isn’t sure what it is, but it appears as if someone took a blue crayon and swirled it an angry circle. On its face are two red eyes with pupils as dark as stone, and black stringy hair stems out from the crown of its head.

Their smile is like shards of glass.

“So if we find the painting, we can return to the real world?” Yusuke does not sound convinced.

“That’s what Akechi believes,” Akira says back. He tightens his grip on the rose, fingers having memorized the placement of the thorns. It would be foolish to lose more petals when there was no vase in sight. Yusuke holds his as well, vibrant azure petals against the violet backdrop of the ground. “It would make sense.”

Akechi is down the hall, unmindful of the sneering, crayon drawings.

“I don’t trust him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself,” Yusuke admits honestly. “I _know_ I’ve seen his face before, but I can’t remember _where_. Something about him isn’t right.”

Akira hums thoughtfully; Akechi _did_ seem quite knowledgeable about the gallery, but so had Yusuke. “Maybe he was a classmate from your school.”

“Perhaps...” his gaze averts to his rose, expression distant. Blue roses, as far as Akira knew, did not exist, but if it was anything like his own, losing a handful of petals could be dangerous. Whether they were real outside the exhibit or not, it didn’t matter. So long as he kept it guarded, everything would be fine.

“Do you need to rest?”

Yusuke shakes his head. “I’m simply lost in thought.” He doesn’t fill in the gap as quickly as expected, but eventually he speaks, the annoyance woven into his voice from earlier entirely gone. “I was wondering... Hypothetically speaking, let’s say the _Sayuri_ was painted by a student. It is unlike the others and is considered one of his most famous works. Surely if the truth were to come out, it would create an uproar.”

It would. Madarame would lose his following and anyone associated with his artwork such as loyal followers would be shunned and blamed for not noticing sooner. “But he passed away, didn’t he?”

“Not too long ago, yes,” Yusuke pauses, looks up to Akechi who rounds the corner. He waits. Akira waits. Until they know Akechi isn’t in any rush to meet back with them. “I have to wonder if Madarame saw the soul as flowers blooming within us. Contrary to belief, he was not as humble as he appeared on television. To think he saw such beauty within people, and that it would manifest as a rose in this twisted world... it’s almost surreal.”

The weight of Yusuke’s words settles in, and Akira can’t keep the frown from his face. He didn’t turn on the TV to listen to Madarame’s interviews nor did he read the articles scattered about the internet. He cannot agree nor disagree if Madarame was ‘pleasant’ or not in public. “What was he like?” _And how did Yusuke know_?

“Strict, for one. He placed art as a priority before anything else. I suppose that is what drove away most of his students. Myself included.”

Akira blinks, lips parting with Yusuke’s name on his tongue. There are a million more questions rushing through him but he is unable to voice any of them.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Akechi’s voice snags his attention.

“No,” he’s not sure why he says this. “It’s alright,” (Yusuke doesn’t even flinch.)

“Ah, good,” he nods, unpleasant smile gracing his lips. “There seems to be a split in the road ahead, but maybe you should see it for yourself. It’s a bit odd.”

Akira shares a look with Yusuke before following. Subconsciously, he holds the rose closer, as if something were to spring from the shadows and tear it from his clutches. Paintings moved, statues moved – he wouldn’t be surprised if the very walls sprouted a mouth with glass-sharp teeth and swallowed them whole. This museum was a completely different world, a nightmare that he couldn’t wake himself up no matter how many times the petals swirled to the floor or he accidentally pricked his finger with one of its thorns.

But he sees the cause of Akechi’s predicament instantly.

One path is as dark and purple as the carpet beneath their feet. The other looks as if the floor has been shred to pieces, stripped into thin lines of thread. A crude road drawn in pink leads into an abyss, and distantly he can smell crayons. It wouldn’t surprise him if the path _was_ made of wax and other art materials.

“Well then, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi says. “The decision is up to you; I trust your judgement.”

Akira blinks. “What?”

“I was thinking it may be better if we split up. It’s likely there are valuables at both ends.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we go together?” Yusuke chips in, frowning. “If you’re that concerned, backtracking is always an option.”

“I respect your opinion, Kitagawa-kun, but we don’t know what could be behind us. I can assure you that all these roads meet up with one another. So though we may be apart, it won’t be for long.”

“And how are you so sure of this?”

Akira finds himself agreeing. Akechi claimed to be a visitor to the Madarame Exhibit just as they were. But—

“I would love to debate with you, but we’re wasting time. What’ll it be, Kurusu-kun? Of course, I am more than willing to accompany you. Two heads are better than one, are they not?”

Yusuke’s eyes linger on the left hall.

Akira reaches to Yusuke, places a hand upon his shoulder. “You two can go together. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“No,” Yusuke protests. “It would be best f Akechi went with you instead. We do not see eye-to-eye, and I do not believe that will be changing any time soon,” he narrows his eyes at the roses. “Guard it safely.”

Akechi chuckles lightly. “Don’t worry, we will.”

Yusuke says nothing.

\--

“So tell me, Akira—” _First names?_ , Akira thinks. “—are you a student as well?"

Something tells him to answer neutrally. And he does.

A second year at Shujin Academy.

“I hear school can be quite entertaining. You see, I was home schooled most of my life, so I can only imagine how much I’m missing.”

...

“How long have you known Kitagawa-kun?”

Since today.

“Interesting... I would think you were friends longer.”

...

“Say, Akira... If only two of us could leave the museum, who would you choose?”

...Huh?

Akira blinks, imagines the emotions the anger that could twist his face should he answer wrong. “I would sacrifice myself.”

Something flickers in Akechi’s eyes and Akira can’t quite put his finger on it. Regardless, it does little to ease his heart.

“You would do that for two people you hardly know? I’m... surprised. I can’t say I would make the same decision, but I suppose that’s what makes us different,” he gives a dismissive wave of his hand. The abysmal backdrop of their surroundings is disorienting when it is paired up with the crayon pink road and the childish doodle of houses and flowers. He can’t fathom why Akechi seems the least bit bothered. “Shall we continue?”

Akira doesn’t know if he could decline.

\--

The tomes in the library are old, each yellow page depicting a drawing “created by” Madarame Ichiryusai. He recognizes each one and recalls studying them back in the classrooms and the atelier. He should be looking for Akira and Akechi, but he can allow himself this much, right? It wouldn’t hurt to look back on the memories long gone.

There’s one painting of two twin fish in a pond. He recognizes the brush strokes from a fellow student, one who did not hesitate to waste away their life when it was clear Madarame was not going to come clean about the plagiarism.

Yusuke clamps the book shut, stuffing it back onto the shelf.

Only for another to tumble to the floor.

It lands unceremoniously, spine bent and pages crumpled against the purple carpet. Yusuke figures it best to store it away less the shelves decide to come alive too.

He expects more images of false paintings, Madarame’s name where it shouldn’t be, and maybe a date that would confirm whether he was under his tutelage when the painting was created.

Akechi Goro’s blank face stares back.

_Crow_  
_20XX_

‘ _While he appears lifelike, he is not based on a real person. It is unknown why the title ‘Crow’ was given, but..._ ’

The rose trembles in his fingers and he doesn’t bother sticking the damn book on the shelf again, unworried that the library would spring to life as he tears out the door and backtracks to the crossroads.

‘ _Akira_ -!’ his mind screams. ‘ _Akira, Akira—_ ’

\--

A locked door to a building that led to the exit... or so he liked to think.

Which meant there was one key.

The final room he searches in is dark, more crayon lines make up the floor and ceiling and walls. He left Akechi in the other room to do some searching on his own. His feet kick at the littered sketchbooks. The pages are blank and he wonders briefly, who this room belonged to. In most scenarios, there would be someone waiting quietly, give them a long, drawn-out speech about how he finally overcame trials and tribulations, and the biggest reward was bragging rights.

There is none of that.

Instead, there is a portrait with jagged glass standing behind the frame like crooked teeth. Whatever drawing was left, he makes out the shape and color of black shoes, but nothing else to paint a legible picture of its owner.

As he steps closer, his feet brush something out of his path...

It whispers silently against the hard, black floor.

The clutch of snow-white roses blink at him.

Numbness injects itself into his veins. He kneels, plucks one of them between his fingers and his heart stutters at their faux surface. The grittiness of fabric petals against the pads of his fingers sends off a warning in his head. He rises to stand, makes a hasty note to himself to kick them out of sight—

( _Akechi couldn’t know)_

“Isn’t it better not to stick your nose in other people’s belongings?”

Akechi’s face is unreadable.

Akira steps back.

He steps forward.

“Who are you?”

“It’s a shame it had to be this way, Kurusu-kun,” the first name is dropped, and Akira does not miss the glint of silver in his hand. “You and everyone else take the outside world for granted while we waste away in the dark. If you had any care or value for life, you wouldn’t have abandoned your partner back there. A shame. Were he here now, things may have turned out differently.”

The fake flower is a contrast against the backdrop of Akechi’s beige blazer.

“We can’t all escape the museum. The amount of people who come in is the same amount that must leave – no more, no less. But let’s say we were to swap places. Someone could stay behind and live out the rest of their life in the world of art. After a while, it’s not nearly as lonely as you would expect it to be. I promise you the paintings have some fascinating theories of the outside world.”

The pieces slide together so quickly: Fake flowers, the portrait— _Akechi’_ s broken portrait, and the glint of a crafting knife in his hand. Akechi is not like the other paintings. His knowledge of the real world was limited, naïve, dare he say, but he knew more. He knew more to the point where it was dangerous for both him and Yusuke.

“I’m sure Kitagawa-kun would have been more willing to take your place. He did seem to be quite informed about the artwork here. I wonder if he recognized any of the paintings in the velvet rooms.”

A shadow shifts behind Akechi, and Akira’s heart leaps into his throat. Were there more paintings?

Akechi does not acknowledge it either.

He had _nothing_. He couldn’t fight back against a weapon. Carving knife or not, all Akechi had to do was rip apart the rose. Would he pluck it petal-by-petal and make sure Akira felt _every wound_ that would fissure itself across his body? Or would he decapitate it from the stem?

“Don’t you realize what’ll happen if you leave?” Akira says, hopes it’s enough to distract him. Akechi was clever after all. “You won’t have a home or a family. The cops will question you and you’ll be put into some foster care system.” He’s running the first thing that clings to his mind, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time as Akechi takes another step closer. “That’s not a way to live.”

A dark chuckle rumbles from Akechi’s throat. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Our lives will be swapped. Your family, your friends, and everything else will live on as it always has. Only one thing will be different.”

“You’re—”

“Instead of worrying about me, you should worry about yourself.”

Akira’s heel catches on... something, and he tumbles back, falls on his rear right as Akechi raises the dagger overhead.

The wooden frame crashes against the side of Akechi’s head. He does not stumble. He turns, absolute hatred and disgust creasing his face as he swings the knife gracefully in Yusuke’s direction. It slides through the stretched cloth and Yusuke’s given only a flash second before he can deflect again and again.

“Don’t stand in my way!” Akechi spits in between stabs.

Glass digs into his palms as he pushes himself to his feet, hand bracing against the wall. He turns, fingers grasping and pulling at the frame, adrenaline successfully blocking the pain that courses through his palms and the blood that beads from the cuts.

‘ _Come_ on—!’

The portrait refuses to budge.

“Akira!” Yusuke calls. He swings, Akechi ducks smoothly. “Burn it!”

... _Burn it_?

The weight of the lighter suddenly feels twice as heavy.

He whips it from his pocket. It _clicks_ loudly and he hears Akechi’s breath catch.

“ _No_ -! Akira, _don’t_!”

Footsteps fast approaching.

“Akechi!” Yusuke lunges, reaching carelessly.

“ _Back off_!” his heel crushes the blue rose that tumbled from Yusuke’s pocket during the scuffle.

Fire bursts from the lighter, licks along the frame and what remained of the painting. The flames swallow it quickly until the bottom of Akechi’s painted shoes are consumed. Shards of glass spit in his face, cling to the creases in his school uniform, and Akechi’s wail sounds behind him.

He turns just to see him crumble to the floor in black ash.

“Yusuke!” Akira’s voice bounces back at him and he hastily plucks the damaged rose, as if holding it closer to Yusuke’s bleeding chest would somehow stem the bleeding. Panic seizes his limbs, makes it harder to move. “You...”

“Don’t... blame him,” Yusuke coughs, not fighting when Akira cradles him in his arms. “He’s as confused as everyone else here.”

“He tried to kill you.”

He scoffs. “Desperation is truly an ugly feeling...” Yusuke unclenches his fist. A plastic pink key sits calmly.

“Where did you...?”

“Hiding in a flower outside...” his eyes linger on the blue rose. Two petals, one clinging weakly to its sepals. “I feel faint...”

Akira jams the key into his pocket, swings one of Yusuke’s arms around his shoulders. It’s awkward to hold the rose between them, but he makes do. “Don’t fall asleep now. We’re going to get out of here.”

“You’re bleeding...”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“Your life is a little more important than a few cuts.”

And Akira does not leave room for arguing. He bites through the pinpricks of pain when he moves his hand carelessly or does something that aggravates the wounds. But he does it because Yusuke saved him, and the least he can do is return the favor.

He tries not to scowl at the empty vase at the base of the stairs. The water has soaked and evaporated from the floor. He’s not sure how the mechanics of this world worked, but at this point, even a water stain on the carpet would alleviate a bit of his insanity. Maybe it was best they leave before his mind decided to do even more somersaults.

There’s a building as pink as the key Yusuke had swiped from a flower.

(Akira had questions, but now wasn’t the time to ask)

He unlocks the door. There is no furniture, but there is a pink staircase smack in the middle of the room.

He hopes to whatever God that there are no more paintings lying ahead.

But there’s a distant quietness that wasn’t present before...

“We’re almost there,” Akira’s not sure why he says that. It was wrong to make blank promises like that.

Yusuke makes a noise in the back of his throat.

Walking down the stairs is difficult when he’s supporting Yusuke, and there’s no handrail to hold onto. But they manage, and the pink slowly bleeds into black carpeting, the walls take on a lighter tone. When they do round the corner, they’re treated to an elongated room with a receptionist desk. A small pile of pamphlets sits at the corner and the _Abyss of the Deep_ model poster hangs dully on the wall.

To the right are the doors he tried to pry open when the exhibit’s lights went out.

This was—

“Akira...”

He follows Yusuke’s gaze to the vase on the opposite end of the desk. Akira doesn’t check to see if there’s water, plopping Yusuke’s damaged rose into its orifice. Slowly, the petals lift their weary heads, and he sees two more begin to bloom before they stop.

It’s not enough water.

Yusuke unhooks his arm from Akira. He’s steadied when his feet decide to stumble from a sudden rush of vertigo.

“Are you okay?”

“Better,” Yusuke sighs. He somehow manages to smile (a genuine smile and not like the sneer he gave Akechi earlier) and Akira can’t explain the weird flipping sensation in his stomach. “Thank you, Akira. I’m in your debt.”

He wants to point out the remaining spots of blood on Yusuke’s pale shirt, but he chooses not to. Now was not the time for that. “You saved me first,” but he notices Yusuke staring at his hands. “Oh...”

There’s a clear-cut laceration stretched across his palm. He winces as Yusuke plucks at a decent-sized piece of glass jammed into his flesh. Thankfully, there’s not much, if any, glass save for that one shard. But he’s not given much time to think on it when Yusuke tugs at the edge of his shirt.

Akira blinks.

The fabric tears loudly.

“What are you doing?” he asks even though it’s _clearly_ obvious as Yusuke dresses his wound. “Your shirt...”

“It’s not a part of my uniform,” Yusuke answers simply, tying the final knot. “Admittedly though, I do have very little clothing at home. Maintaining a budget has been difficult as of late.” he pulls away. “Shall we be off?”

Akira nods slowly. “Yeah...”

He pulls his gaze from the makeshift bandage.

They move to the next room. There’s string of paintings on the wall and a closed off space for headless statues. He makes sure to look back over his shoulder as they walk by, makes note of their current location to be sure they aren’t being followed.

“Akira, look.”

He does.

The painting is as long as the expanse of the wall. It depicts the front room they just walked through. Only this one is dominated by people with blank faces and crude bodies. He wonders if this is Madarame’s _true_ artwork or if it was just a play of the mind.

“ _Fabricated World_...” Yusuke reads the gold plaque. “Do you think this is...?” His fingers touch the yellow border and white light bursts from the painting.

Akira blinks, clears the black spots that spade across his vision. Hesitantly, he touches the painting. His hand sinks into its surface and he pulls back as if burned.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I...” something stirs in his chest, and Akira wonders if it’s okay to feel hope. “I think we can go in.”

Yusuke tilts his head just so. “Through it?”

“This is our way back.”

( _He wandered the halls aimlessly. There was a painting with a blurred-out name depicting a world drawn of crayons and harsh colors. The ‘Lady in Red’ and a few other paintings were scattered across its black backdrop._

_Akira tried to read the title._

_And that was when the lights went off._

_The ‘Abyss of the Deep’ opened wide.)_

“Let’s go before the frame comes back.”

His lips part to speak, but it is not his voice that reaches Akira’s ears first.

“ _Yusuke_...”

They turn.

She is not the ‘ _Lady in Red_ ’. Her hair is spun onyx and her face is kind. But behind those eyes, Akira senses something malicious. She is nothing like the picture Yusuke had so eagerly shown him before in the safe room.

The Sayuri’s movements are graceful. “So this is where you were, Yusuke,” she says.

“How does she know your name?”

Yusuke’s silence does not calm his nerves.

She looks to Akira and frowns. “And who’s this? Were you going to return to the real world with him and not me—?”

“Yusuke—”

“—your own mother?”

Whatever he was going to say is lost on his tongue. He does not miss the way Yusuke flinches.

He looks from mother to son. “ _Mother_?” he echoes.

“The truth of the _Sayuri_ ,” Yusuke starts slowly unresponsive when Akira grabs his wrist. “I suppose I haven’t been honest with you, Akira. Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be,” it’s heartless to brush this off so carelessly, but he would have time to apologize later if Yusuke just went _now_. “But she’s not your mother, Yusuke. She may look like her, but she’s out in the real world. This is just a painting.”

“That can’t be.”

The Sayuri laughs lightly. “What nonsense is this? I know you continued to search for me despite what your teacher told you. The truth is all his failed projects end up here. Did you not recognize some of your peers, Yusuke?”

“She’s lying.”

“Silence,” she hisses at Akira. “ _He’s_ the one who lies.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want you in this world. She would want you out there and inspiring others with your artwork, not trapped in some abyss.”

“There are plenty of misguided students that could be inspired here. You miss the atelier, don’t you, Yusuke? This time it can just be the two of us and the other wronged by Madarame. When the _Fabricated World_ opens again, we’ll be ready.”

Yusuke says nothing.

Akira’s worry grows.

“Well? What is your decision?”

“May I ask you something?” Yusuke finally speaks.

“...What is it?”

“It is something not even Madarame himself would know.” he hesitates. “What was the meaning behind _Sayuri’s_ smile?”

That familiar spark of hope from before ignites in his chest. Akira himself is interested, but he knows this is not something he can intervene in. So he remains quiet, watches The Sayuri’s blank face. Her thin eyebrows crease into a frown, but the seconds have already dripped by.

Akira didn’t know but there was no way he could.

She wouldn’t have known either. A painting cannot fully understand human emotions.

“I thought so...” Yusuke trails off. “You may bear the same face, but you and my mother are not the same person.” He turns to Akira, but his eyes are on the _Fabricated World_. “Let’s be off.”

He can only nod. “Yeah. Let’s meet up again in the real world.”

“I’ll be waiting.” And so they step closer.

The Sayuri scowls, her calm demeanor cracking into something far angrier and vicious. She surges forward as they fall back into the painting.

Her angry visage is the last thing he sees before white light swallows his vision whole.

\--

Noise surges into his ears and he blinks. There’s a painting as long and wide as the wall it rests on, but something tells him not to touch it. But he can’t understand why. Thinking back on it, he doesn’t remember seeing this piece in the pamphlet.

He walks away from it, moves out of the way for some visitors too busy to pay attention to their own surroundings.

“Hey, Akira!” attached to the voice is a girl around his age, blonde hair pulled into twin tails and blue eyes bright. Behind Takamaki Ann is a boy with bleached hair and a rather terrible posture. Sakamoto Ryuji looks less than pleased to be at the exhibit. “Where were you? We were looking everywhere after you wandered off!”

“Yeah, don’t tell me you were getting a head start!” he pauses. “Then again, we _could_ exchange answers later—” (Ann jabs him with her elbow.) “—kidding, geez...”

“Come on, let’s just get this over with.” Ann sighs. “We can start with the exhibits on this floor... Huh?” Akira follows her gaze to his hand. “Are you okay?”

Wrapped around his palm is a white fabric, but it’s not made of bandages. There’s a rusted stain at the center. Carefully, he unwraps it despite the warning from both Ann and Ryuji. The skin of his palm is smooth and unmarred.

...What _had_ he been doing?

\--

_I’ll be waiting._

\--

“Uh... Akira?”

“I...” Akira steps away, feet carrying him to the stairs. He doesn’t tuck away the makeshift bandage, afraid that he’ll forget what it is (not that he _knew_ ) if it leaves his sight. “I have someone I need to see. Excuse me.”

“What?” Ryuji exclaims. “No... don’t tell me someone’s meeting him here...!”

“Is that _all_ you think about?”

White fabric... a shirt.

Gentle hands tending to his injury... plucking out the piece of glass.

He had... cut his hand, but where did the glass _come_ from?

A giant model of a fish with sharp teeth and dark eyes sits at the center of the lower room. It too strikes familiarity in him, and he remembers blue ink spilling across this very floor...

Further down, a rose model with extravagant red petals and thorns as sharp as needles. _As the rose withers, so do you_ , the poster on the wall reads.

The roses had vanished upon returning to the real world.

He wonders if this very sculpture is the same one he held in his hands as he traveled through the dark exhibit.

A young man with dark hair observes it quietly. He looks over as Akira approaches. There is no familiarity in his eyes.

“Yusuke,” Akira says softly.

He frowns. “Do I know you?”

Disappointment stirs in his gut, but he’s come this far. There was still hope. It got him this far, hadn’t it? He holds out the torn fabric and is not surprised to see it matches the rip in his shirt. “Yeah,” he says, and despite it all, he manages to smile as Yusuke’s frown dissolves into something less defensive. “It’s a long story, but we could catch up over a ruined shirt.”

Yusuke takes it from him, blinks slowly. “...It matches,” he mumbles to himself. “No... So that wasn’t a dream...”

 _A part of me wishes it was._ There was no amount of therapy sessions that could successfully erase the trauma of being chased by an art gallery come to life. He can only imagine what the notes would look like.

“Akira...? The other person... It was you, wasn’t it, Akira?”

He nods, and even on his own face, the smile feels _real_.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Yusuke’s laugh is soft, but it is undoubtedly one of the best things he’s heard since returning to their world.


End file.
